"Hello," he said, picking up.
"Bobby, there you are!"
His heart seized up at the sound of her voice.
"Where have you been?" Christine asked. "I've been leaving messages."
"Chrissy! I've been meaning to call you."
Regret stabbed at him like blades piercing his skin. How he missed her.
"Mr. Montgomery called from the school again," she said. "Scott's tuition hasn't been paid."
"Got it covered," he said, just as he had to Vinnie LaBarca. In truth, nothing was covered. His life was a series of uncovered bets and unpaid bills. "I'm going to pay the first semester and second semester in one lump sum."
"Bobby, you know Scott's transferring to Berkshire Prep for the second semester."
"No," he said, refusing to acknowledge what the Texas judge ordered over his objections.
"I'll be paying for everything," Christine said.
"It's not the money, and you know it. I don't want Scott shipped off to some boarding school fifteen hundred miles away."
Bobby was getting a headache. The limo belched out fumes and sputtered its discontent. The race track was ten minutes away, and cars whizzed past, kicking up dust.
"It's the only way to maximize his potential," she said.
"How, by taking him away from me?"
"No Bobby. You're a wonderful father."
"Then why do it?"
"We've been through this," Christine said. "Scott's off the charts in math. He needs a special environment to nurture him."
"We could nurture him. Together."
"We're not going to rehash that," she said with a sigh. "And what we're doing now, splitting the school year between Dallas and Miami, is crazy. The shrinks all say so."
"Then give me full custody."
"Dammit, Bobby. Can you write a check to the school or should I do it? I don't mind advancing you the money if-"
"Whoops, going through a tunnel," Bobby said, scratching his fingernails across the mouthpiece. "Losing you."
No, strike that. Lost you.
He clicked off, eased the car into gear and headed for the race track.
"Dad, I don't want to go to some skanky prison for math geeks."
"You won't have to."
"'Cause I like hanging with you, Dad."
Bobby walked a fine line as a divorced father, trying not to interfere with Scott's relationship with his mother while battling to influence how the boy was raised. It wasn't easy, not against the strong-willed Christine and her belligerent father. Bobby never doubted that Martin Kingsley loved his grandson. Scott was his flesh and blood, the only child of his only child. Unlike his material possessions, however, Scott was no longer under Kingsley's control, and that must have rankled the old man. The fact that Scott loved his Dad and emulated him must have been a prickly burr under Kingsley's saddle.
The bastard hates me more than he despises Democrats, taxes, and the Washington Redskins.
Bobby's mind drifted back to that day in front of the cameras two years ago, the day that flipped his life over like a tortoise onto its back.
"What were you thinking?" Christine had demanded when he came home, his accusations filling every living room in Dallas. "After all my father's done for you, this is how you repay him! Where's your loyalty?"
"Where's your heart?" he replied. "Is it with your father or with me?"
"Is that an ultimatum? Are you forcing me to choose between the two of you?"
To Bobby, it should have been a simple choice. He was the man she loved, the father of her son. Her father was corrupt and tainted everything he touched. Couldn't she see that?
"I'm divorcing you," she said, each word crackling like a rifle shot. Her eyes glistened, but her voice never wavered, and her spine stayed straight as a spike.
12
Father and son passed the Homestretch Cafe and climbed the steps to the grandstand. It was a glorious sun-baked Florida day of blue skies and steady breezes. Still, Bobby was out of sorts, and he popped antacids to calm his knotted stomach.
Where's the Cantor? Why the hell hasn't he returned my calls?
Bobby was desperate to know that he wasn't on the hook-a grappling hook-for six hundred thousand. Then he could enjoy the afternoon with his son. He wanted Scott to smell the sweet saltiness of the horses in the paddock, then treat the boy to some stone crabs in the Turf Club, maybe sneak him into the casino to play the one-armed bandits.
But the real reason they were here was to find the Cantor.
Where the hell is he?
Why is he ducking me?
Bobby had started to worry on Tuesday morning when the Vegas oddsmakers moved the line half a point. Then Dallas was favored by seven-and-one-half. The half point, he knew, was to prevent the game from being a "push," in which the bet is canceled if the final score falls right on the point spread. At seven points, there'd be a "push" at 14-7, 21–14, 24–17, and a bunch of other common scores.
Bobby hoped that the movement didn't also signify a ton of money being bet on Dallas, so that the oddsmakers would have to keep adjusting their lines to balance the books. Wednesday brought more bad news, as the line jumped a full point to eight-and-a-half. Then, yesterday, it crawled up another half point. Now, Dallas was favored by a startling nine points.
If the Cantor hadn't moved quickly, he never would have been able to lay off the mobster's bet-Dallas as a seven point favorite. Bettors wanting to take the favored Mustangs today had to give the bookies nine points, not seven. To a savvy bettor or bookie the two-point swing was monumental. No one would take Green Bay today with only a seven-point cushion when he could get nine. Bobby prayed the Cantor had laid off the bet early in the week.
Once in the clubhouse, Bobby asked all the regulars if the Cantor had been around, but nobody had seen him all week.
With Scott at his side, Bobby walked toward the parimutuel windows. They checked the barber shop and the rest rooms, the shoe shine stand and the hot dog vendor, even the shop selling authentic horseshoes, ingrained with dirt. They ignored the mile-and-an-eighth allowance race going on below them, the bettors whooping from the grandstand.
As the horses were jitterbugging into the gate for the next race, bookmaker and son headed for the concourse, Bobby's thoughts wandering toward Dallas. Sometimes he wondered what life would have been like if he'd stayed. Lunches at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, drinks at the Stadium Club. He'd still have Chrissy. The family would be together. Why hadn't he just sucked it up and played Kingsley's game?
Because I just couldn't.
But what had he accomplished? He'd lost his wife and impoverished himself. Nightlife Jackson was still playing, Kingsley having hired a slick attorney to do what Bobby wouldn't. Faced with embarrassing questions about her past sex life, harassed by the news media and wanting to leave Dallas, Janet Petty dropped the case for a small cash settlement.
If I had to do it all over again, I would. If only I could have gotten my freedom without losing Chrissy.
Bobby and Scott walked along the concourse where bettors lined up at the windows clutching Racing Forms, like Bibles, in sweaty hands. Still no sign of the Cantor. Bobby was fighting against an edginess that buzzed inside him like a bee against a window.
They paused at a refreshment stand so Scott could order a Cuban sandwich-roast pork and ham with cheese and pickles on white, crusty bread-while Bobby scanned the area, looking for the Cantor. They walked past the fifty-dollar window, the bell ringing, bets closing, aged bettors scurrying back to their seats, cigars clamped in teeth, stubby pencils tucked behind ears.
They watched a stakes race, Bobby at first ignoring Scott's pleas to let him bet on the one-eight perfecta, then avoiding the boy's told-you-so smirk when the combination paid fifty-six dollars. Then they headed down to the paddock.